


Susceptibility

by osprey_archer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Betrayal, Choking, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 18:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: While trawling the datadump post-Insight, Steve finds the memos Rumlow wrote to Pierce about his missions with Captain AmericaHe's appalled to discover that Rumlow wrote abouteverything. Including the blow jobs.





	Susceptibility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithborien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithborien/gifts).



> Thanks to [lucymonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster) for betaing this!
> 
> See the end of the fic for notes about the contents. This fic is a matryoshka doll of consent issues.

Everyone needs a routine, and this is Steve’s. Late at night, so late it’s generally getting on toward morning, Steve puts aside his work. Sometimes he’s following up leads on Bucky, but mostly he’s hunting down Hydra bases. Today, he’s just put the finishing touches on a plan for another raid. A base out in Arlington. 

Steve’s eyes burn with tiredness, but he’s too keyed up to sleep. So he follows his routine: he cracks open a bottle of vodka and pulls up the files from Natasha’s data dump. 

There’s a lot of good stuff in there, if by _good_ you mean _sickening_. Secret prisons, hidden stashes of alien tech, memory-altering experiments: if Steve had known half the shit SHIELD was up to – 

Well. He likes to believe he would have tried to blow them up even if it weren’t for Hydra. 

Steve reads for a while. He scrolls through memos peppered with admonishments to “Trust the system,” the minutes of old meetings (“How can we control the Hulk?”), a brainstorming session for Project Insight. (God, they all thought using laser beams to shoot people from the sky was such a _fucking good idea_ ). Just a little light reading as he waits for the vodka to do its work. He drinks it straight from the bottle. 

Finally – when he’s sloshed enough to take it – he circles back to his own file.

Back to Rumlow’s memos. 

Not that Rumlow was the only one writing memos about Steve. There are memos in there from Sharon, from Rollins, from fucking _Natasha_ , and wasn’t that a punch in the gut the first time he saw it? Although really he shouldn’t have been surprised. Natasha hadn’t been the one Steve trusted, before Insight. 

That had been Rumlow. 

Rumlow had been the one Steve trusted. The guy he relied on. His right-hand man. (His new Bucky, Steve had thought, sometimes, traitorously.) He believed in Rumlow. Would have done anything Rumlow had asked. If Rumlow had put it to him the right way, Steve probably would have joined Hydra.

And Steve is aware even as he thinks it that it is untrue, but that doesn’t matter. The thought is a whip to scourge himself with and a good one, too, and he lashes himself with it. It doesn’t cut deep enough. His blunt fingernails dig into his palms and they don’t hurt half as much as they should. 

Steve takes another swig of vodka. Clicks through to the next memo. 

_Chief –_

That’s Rumlow’s codename for Pierce.

_I fucked Captain America!_

The words nearly blast Steve out of his seat. 

He knew, he should have known, this was coming. He’s tried to forget the incident, tried to box it up and shove it to the back of his mind to rot in the darkness, but of course Rumlow told. Of course Rumlow told _everything_.

It was just the two of them in the safe house that night, because the third guy on their mission (Fisher? No, Fletcher. Ferber? Oh, fuck.) got blown sky-high earlier that day. Steve was tired, dead tired, dog tired, mechanically shaving away three days’ growth of stubble in front of a cracked greenish bathroom mirror. He had stripped back his suit so it hung down around his waist. 

The safe house only had one room. It wasn’t a house, really, it was an apartment, a dingy little studio with a grotty bathroom with a door that wouldn’t shut properly. It was natural that Rumlow could see him, natural that Rumlow let out a low impressed whitle and said, “That’s some bruise, Cap.”

Less natural maybe that Rumlow came over and put his big hand over the blobby purple bruise on Steve’s ribs. It didn’t quite cover it. “Christ. You probably oughta see a doctor.”

Steve shrugged. Kept shaving. “I’ll see someone when we get back to base.” 

Rumlow stood there, his warm hand on Steve’s ribs, and it kind of hurt and it kind of didn’t. Steve finished shaving – put down the razor – and Rumlow put his other hand on Steve’s other side, so he had both his hands on Steve’s waist, and Steve twisted around so they were facing each other. He braced himself him on the bathroom counter. 

“Easy, Cap.” Rumlow’s hands were gentle. He’d moved closer now. Their hips bumped. “It’s been a shithole day. Thought you could use a distraction.” 

And Steve – God help him. It sounded like a good idea at the time. “Yeah,” he said. 

And Rumlow leaned forward, slow, pressing his warm body against Steve’s skin, and Steve doesn’t remember feeling cold, but he must have been because the warmth felt good. The warmth of Rumlow’s body, of his breath on Steve’s face, the heat of his lips, “This okay, Cap?”, the words barely a breath, and Steve let go of the counter and lifted his hands to tangle in Rumlow’s hair and mash their mouths together…

Rumlow didn’t put any of that in his memo. 

_We had the safehouse to ourselves after Fraser kicked it. We’re barely in there five minutes before he’s stripping out of his suit. He’s all banged up, just covered in bruises, practically polka-dotted. I go over to see if I can help out a little, and I’ve barely got my hand on his shoulder before_ bam _, he’s on his knees, rubbing his face against my crotch, just desperate to get his mouth on my dick._

Which isn’t how it happened. They were kissing, kissing, mouths open, teeth clacking, wet and dirty, Rumlow’s got him pushed up against the bathroom counter and their hips pushed together so Steve can feel how hard Rumlow’s gotten, how hard they’ve both gotten. Steve’s elbow knocks against the tap so suddenly there’s water gushing into the sink, and for a moment they break apart, they’re both fumbling to turn it off.

And when that’s over Rumlow doesn’t kiss him again, he’s moved his hands from Steve’s waist up to his shoulders, his neck, he’s pressed his forehead against Steve’s, he’s tracing Steve’s lips with a finger. No. With his thumb. He slides his thumb in the corner of Steve’s mouth, stroking the inside of his cheek. 

“You ever sucked a dick before, Cap?” Rumlow asks. 

“No,” says Steve, and doesn’t say he’s never had his dick sucked, either, nice girls in the forties didn’t do that (even _bad_ girls in the forties didn’t do that) and he wouldn’t have asked Bucky, either – but he’s breathing so hard he’s having trouble speaking. 

“I’ll show you how,” Rumlow says, and he’s already sinking to his knees, peeling Steve’s suit back a little more, exposing his dick, which is hard and red. Steve’s embarrassed to look at it. He’s let go of Rumlow’s hair, he’s clinging to the bathroom counter again, and Rumlow kisses the head of Steve’s dick and Steve gives a wet gasp and Rumlow laughs at him. “I’ll show you how and then you’ll do me. Huh?” 

“Yeah,” Steve manages, more or less, although it comes out mostly air because Rumlow takes Steve’s dick in his mouth before he finishes the word. Rumlow’s a crap teacher, always has been, no patience, doesn’t start off slow to show Steve how a beginner should do it, just swallows him down whole like a python.

And anyway Steve’s too embarrassed to watch for long. He glances down and there’s Rumlow, kneeling, his eyelashes dark and his cheeks hollowed out and his nose pressed against Steve’s pubic hair, how can he even _breathe_ , and then Rumlow does something with his tongue and Steve can’t breathe and his face is on fire and his whole body’s on fire and he can’t look at Rumlow anymore, he’s staring at the wall instead, there’s a water stain on the white wall just above the empty towel bar. He’s clinging to the edge of the counter. His suit is slipping downward and now the small of his back is exposed, and it knocks against the cold countertop, and the shock of the cold reverberates up and down his spine. 

It’s all so overwhelming that it’s a surprise when he comes. One moment he feels like he’s about to crawl out of his skin, and then the world explodes, and then Rumlow’s sliding off of Steve and there’s a thread of spit between his dick and Rumlow’s mouth. 

The thread breaks. Rumlow wipes his mouth and stands up. “Best blowjob you ever had?” Rumlow asks, smug. 

Steve nods. He’s too dizzy to speak. 

Rumlow puts a hand on Steve’s shoulders and pushes, real gentle, and Steve crumples to his knees. Rumlow keeps one hand on Steve’s hand, stroking his hair, scratching him behind the ears, and with the other he’s undoing his fly, and there’s his dick, and it looks _huge_ , and Steve flinches back against the bathroom sink. 

“Don’t wimp out on me,” Rumlow orders. 

“I won’t,” Steve promises, although his throat is dry and he has no fucking idea how he’s supposed to cram that whole thing into his mouth. “You’re just so… big,” he says, and Rumlow whoops out a laugh and now he’s got his other hand on Steve’s face, cupping his cheek, running down his neck, curving around his neck and pressing down just a little, just enough that Steve sees stars. 

Steve kisses Rumlow’s dick. It’s tentative, a peck really, and it surprises him that the skin doesn’t taste any different than the other parts of Rumlow’s body. He might as well be kissing Rumlow’s elbow. It’s okay, Steve thinks, and he opens his mouth, and he’s got his lips around the head of Rumlow’s dick, and he even licks it, but the taste of pre-come startles him and he jerks back and hits his head against the knob handle on the cabinet beneath the sink.

“Easy, easy,” Rumlow says, and he’s rubbing one hand over Steve’s bare shoulder, down his back. That feels really nice. Steve turns his face against Rumlow’s thigh. Rumlow’s pubic hair scratches against his temple. “I see how fast you pick things up in the gym. This isn’t so different.” 

And that calms Steve down, almost as much as the hand on his shoulder. He’s learning new skills with his body all the time. New ways to fight usually, but why not new ways to make love?

(Steve is aware that most people in the twenty-first century think _make love_ is a risible expression. He was aware even then that it did not describe what he and Rumlow were doing except in the loosest sense. His consciousness seems to have split, so a part of him is sitting in his apartment, with the bullet holes still in the walls from the assassination attempt on Fury, and his hand pressed against the crotch of his jeans because _fuck_ , why is this getting him hard? – but another part of him is back in that apartment, with that faint smell of mildew, and Rumlow’s hands soothing the tension in his shoulders. The taste of bile burns in his throat.) 

This is where Rumlow’s memo picks up. More or less. 

_He undid my fly with his teeth. Got it open on the first try, too: you can tell he’s sucked a thousand dicks in his life. He’s got his mouth on me in moments, and I’ve got to pull him off, and he makes this great squelching _pop_ sound as he goes, and looks up at me with those big blue eyes of his, all wet and sad around the edges. _

_“Not yet,” I told him. “You got to earn it.” And I pulled him up and bent him over the sink and I fucked him just like that, with his stealth suit down around his knees, and I put an arm around his chest and I pulled him back so he could see himself in the mirror, see his big hard red dick bouncing against his stomach because he just loves being fucked that much, and I told him to jerk himself off like that, right there._

_And he was so damn turned on that he barely had his hand on his dick before he came. And I kept fucking him, and he was moaning cause it hurt, but he loved it, he came again and I wouldn’t even let him touch himself that time, just fucked him and fucked him while he squirmed around my dick till he came._

_He was crying after that because he’s gotten so sensitive, but when I pulled out he begged me to keep fucking him. I told him to suck me off instead, so he did it, took me all the way down his throat, and I could feel his throat contracting as he choked on my dick, and I put my hand around his throat so I could feel my dick down there, and he loved it. He had one hand around my waist so I couldn’t pull away and he was jerking himself off with the other. He loved it so much he didn’t want to stop even after I came, so I let him go to sleep that way, with my dick in his mouth like a baby with a pacifier._

Which isn’t what happened. It’s so far from what happened that Steve’s amazed Rumlow bothered waiting till they actually did something before he sent this fantasy to Pierce. None of that happened, this isn’t what happened at all except Steve _did_ choke, Rumlow got tired of waiting for him and jammed his dick down Steve’s throat, and Steve choked and gagged and he bit down, not on purpose, just on reflex, and Rumlow roared and pulled away. 

He looked down at Steve, his face scary dark, and Steve kneeling there half-naked on the cold linoleum with tears on his face. The tears were part of the gag reflex, and Steve wiped them away defiantly, and Rumlow had both hands over his dick and he screamed, “What the _fuck_ , Rogers?” 

“What the fuck!” Steve yelled back, and he lumbered to his feet. His suit, twisted down around his knees, tripped him up. He fell over and hit his shoulder against the towel rod and tried to grab it to pull himself up, and instead pulled the towel rod out of the wall and ended up in a heap on the floor with drywall dust raining down on his head. Steve was coughing. His throat felt raw, abraded, like Rumlow’s dick had cut it. He gagged on the hot sour taste of bile. 

“You fucking _cheat_ ,” Rumlow snarled, and then – in retrospect – he must’ve remembered that he was supposed to make nice with Steve, become his best friend, win him over for Hydra. Because the words had barely left Rumlow’s mouth, Steve was only just starting to tense up for a fight (half naked with his knees bound by his own damn clothes, but at least he had the towel bar to use as a weapon), before Rumlow was on the floor too, with his arms around Steve, gentle again. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, kid. Guess you got a super gag reflex with everything else, huh?” 

Steve always liked it when Rumlow called him kid. Rumlow knew, even if Steve was born in 1918, he’s really only in his twenties, and sometimes he feels younger, like one of those wet-behind-the-ears fresh out of high school eighteen-year-old recruits just seeing the real world for the first time, just because the twenty-first century is so different from 1944. 

No one else got that. Everyone else liked to yuk it up with grandpa jokes. Steve pulled his suit back up around his waist and fastened it again, and surreptitiously wiped his face, and rested his head against Rumlow’s shoulder. He was so tired. “Sorry,” Steve mumbled. 

“Sorry,” Rumlow said. He gave Steve a little lift, turning him so Steve’s face was tucked against Rumlow’s neck, and Steve liked that too, the fact that Rumlow was strong enough to lift him. Rumlow stroked Steve’s hair. “Sorry, kid. I’m just on edge ‘cause of Fraser.” 

And that was how Steve fell asleep: in Rumlow’s lap, in Rumlow’s arms, just for a few minutes, till Rumlow shook him and said, “We’d better order a pizza, Cap. Don’t want you and your metabolism getting any ideas about eating _me_.” 

In his memo, Rumlow wrote, _He looks real sweet when he sleeps._

And that’s the end of the memo. 

Steve’s hand lifts – it’s like he’s watching it – it doesn’t seem connected to him, doesn’t seem to have any weight. His hand clicks the _next_ button on the computer screen. Here’s Pierce’s reply.

Pierce didn’t bother replying to many of Rumlow’s memos. 

_Crossbones –_

That was Rumlow’s codename. Crossbones. Like a Jolly Roger.

_You realize I get copies of all your medical reports. And the safehouses are all bugged._

_Nonetheless, I cc’d your email to the rest of the STRIKE team. They thought it was damn funny._

Steve makes it to the bathroom before he vomits. The vodka burns coming back up. 

Afterwards, he’s shaking. He strips off his clothes like they’re dirty, although they’re not, and he turns on the shower and crouches down beneath the hot spray, and he can’t stop shaking. He feels as though someone has stripped off his skin and put it back on inside out.

He wants someone to put their arms around him. Hold him till he pulls himself together. 

He lies down on the shower floor instead. Presses his cheek against the tile. Wills himself to drown in the hot water. 

He doesn’t, of course. He picks himself up, dries himself off. Turns off the shower. Puts on clean clothes. 

Tomorrow’s bottle of vodka is already waiting in the freezer. Steve gets it out now, twists off the top, lifts it to his mouth to chug. The cold glass burns his lips. Vodka spills down his chin. 

He does not remember the rest of the night. When he wakes up, his head is splitting. He cuts his foot on the broken glass on the kitchen floor, and throws up again in the kitchen sink. 

Rumlow’s memo is still glowing in his mind. Steve leans over the sink, water running to wash away the vomit (mostly liquid anyway). He’s breathing hard. 

Then he pushes himself to stand up. The sunlight through the window seems to cut his eyes. 

He hopes Sam or Natasha will drive today. They’ve got a Hydra base to blow up.

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Insight, Steve is reading a memo Rumlow wrote about a sexual encounter Rumlow and Steve had pre-Insight. Steve consented to the exchange of blow jobs at the time (although he discovered Rumlow's not a very patient teacher), but in retrospect he's appalled by Rumlow's betrayal, feels violated when he discovers Rumlow's memo bragging about the incident, and feels even worse when he discovers that Rumlow just plain made up a more pornographic version of their encounter. And that Pierce cc'd the memo to the rest of the STRIKE team.


End file.
